


The Knob Who Saved Christmas

by Hazelmist



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Grinch!Hardy, Hallmark moments, Questionable Behavior in a Workplace, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazelmist/pseuds/Hazelmist
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, it was not the most wonderful time of the year. There would be no decking the halls of the stationhouse with holly, there would be no rocking around the Christmas tree, and there certainly would not be any prancing in a winter wonderland or kissing under the mistletoe. Not if D.I. Hardy could help it.Unfortunately, Miller missed that memo and now she desperately needed his help.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 43
Kudos: 131





	1. D.I. Grinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I started this fic last December and planned to save it for next year, but I think we could all use some fluff in our lives right now. Please don’t take this too seriously, but do keep in mind that Hardy and Ellie are both Adults and they’re going to be more OOC in this one. 
> 
> **TW: Discussions of Sexual Harassment and Inappropriate Behavior in a Workplace**

Contrary to popular belief, it was _not_ the most wonderful time of the year. There would be no decking the halls of the stationhouse with holly, there would be no rocking around the Christmas tree, and there certainly would not be any prancing in a winter wonderland or kissing under the mistletoe. Not if D.I. Hardy could help it. 

Hardy _hated_ Christmas. 

He didn’t have any memories of a Christmas that wasn’t tainted by stress or loneliness. His mother had a black eye on one of their last Boxing Days together, and although Hardy wasn’t anything like his abusive father, the holidays brought out the worst in Tess and him. There had been many whispered arguments on Christmas Eve over finances, forgotten gifts, and him missing some holiday party or concert at Daisy’s school because of work. Christmas meant the dreaded arrival of Hardy’s insufferable in-laws, and a strained dinner that inevitably ended in someone losing their temper (usually Hardy). After tucking Daisy into bed, he always spent Christmas night on the sofa, and Boxing Day apologizing to Tess. 

Daisy with her childish excitement and enthusiasm was the one bright spot during the tense holidays, but after the divorce, his daughter had spent every holiday with her mother. 

This year was shaping up to be another miserable Christmas. Daisy had gone up to Sandbrook early to visit with friends, and Tess had already informed him that their daughter wouldn’t like the present he’d picked out for her. Last week, someone - Hardy suspected it was Miller - had decorated the CID with fake garland and had woven in multi-coloured LED lights that sometimes blinked or shut off randomly. A little Christmas tree had been set up with shiny mis-matched baubles and tinsel, gifts and sweets propped up in odd places, and there was something hideous on Miller’s desk that looked suspiciously like an elf. Two days ago, the awful Christmas music started piping through a Bluetooth speaker that disappeared as soon as he tracked it to someone’s desk. Hardy suspected that this was Miller’s doing as well, but for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, he didn’t tell her to get rid of it or the decorations. Everything would be gone by the end of the week, and closing the door to his office almost blocked out six different renditions of ‘Last Christmas’ as well as the tacky decorations.

Unfortunately, Miller and her staff of secret helpers were nowhere near finished with their holiday campaign. The day before Christmas Eve she donned a pair of antlers with bloody bells and the ugliest jumper that Hardy had ever seen. Miller burst into his office, chattering away about some charity event, but he was too busy staring at the sequined kittens frolicking across the shaggy green fabric that should’ve been binned in the Eighties. 

“Hardy!” 

Miller rapped on the desk and he snapped to attention. 

“What?”

“Do you like it?” Miller asked, beaming and preening for him. The pose she struck drew his eyes back to the kitten on her chest, and the fact that the jumper was a bit snug on her, unlike the baggy two-sizes-too-big jumpers he was used to seeing her in. 

“Nice,” he grunted. 

“I got you a matching one.”

Hardy choked on his coffee and Miller perched on the edge of his desk.

“I’m joking, well, not about the event tonight,” she sighed and took a sip of her own coffee. She fiddled with her antlers and the bells tinkled as she went on. “This is the first year Beth and I are in charge, and I know you didn’t sign up for this, but we need all the help we can get.” She looked at him beseechingly, but it was hard to take anyone seriously with that jumper and those ridiculous things on her head. 

“Help with what?”

“Not much,” she said vaguely. “Maybe you could help me load up the car with the decorations and food. Oh, and I’ll need someone to keep an eye on the Snells, you know they always drink too much, and Crazy Jim always nicks all the booze.”

“P.C. Bob will be there,” he reminded her, recollecting the charity event she’d been worrying over for the last six weeks. 

“Beth and I will be preoccupied running everything, if you could keep an eye on Fred and Lizzie…” she trailed off as Hardy pushed back his chair and stood up. Her bloody antlers were annoying him; one of the bells was hanging by a thread, threatening to take a dunk in her coffee. 

“So, you’ll do it?” she asked.

Hardy removed her headband and Miller immediately squawked at him, accusing him of nicking it. Ignoring her, he touched the smallest bell and it fell right into his palm. He pulled the thread loose and tested the others. 

“You’re ruining it,” she whinged, snatching it from him. “Just because _you_ hate Christmas, it doesn’t mean that you have to ruin it for everyone else.”

“‘M not ruining it,” he argued, motioning toward the doorway where some faux garland was drooping. “I let you keep those dreadful decorations even though it’s a fire hazard, and you know how much I hate the radio on a regular day.”

“I only turned it on a couple of days ago,” she said, bristling. 

“And I’ve heard thirty different renditions of ‘Last Christmas’,” he sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. 

“It’s nearly Christmas, Hardy, you don’t have to be such a Grinch about it,” she grumbled and he groaned.

“If I hear _that_ song one more bloody time-” But she interrupted him. 

“If I shut the radio off, will you help us at the charity event tonight,” she bargained with him. Hardy hesitated, but the idea of never having to hear Michael Bublé or Pentatonix for another year was too tempting. 

“Fine,” he agreed and she smiled. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” She hopped up from his desk with her coffee, forgetting the daft antlers.

“Miller.”

She stopped in the doorway and he swiped the headband off the desk, shaking it at her and ringing the stupid bells. Hardy ignored her outstretched hand and placed the silly thing on her head. 

Miller’s breath caught as he adjusted it, straightening the antlers and smoothing a few of the ringlets they’d dislodged. He’d been so blinded by the antlers and the obnoxious jumper that he hadn’t noticed that today was one of the rare days she’d worn her hair down. She had to have gotten a haircut recently, because he couldn’t remember her hair being this curly in a long time. It suited her. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. 

She must’ve smiled at him hundreds of times over the years, but Hardy _felt_ the warmth of this one. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back. 

“You can play your awful Christmas music,” he told her, putting the desk and a safe distance between them. 

“I’ll try to skip over ‘Last Christmas’ and Pentatonix,” she offered generously. 

“And Michael Bublé,” Hardy added. Miller stared at him in abject horror, appalled by his lack of taste in holiday music. 

“Just keep it down,” he sighed, settling in at his desk. She shook her head and went to pull the door shut behind her, but he gruffly told her she better leave it open. 

Hardy had difficulty completing his list of tasks, but he couldn’t blame his lack of concentration on Michael Bublé. His thoughts kept drifting to a warm smile, a snug fuzzy jumper, and a pair of silly antlers nestled in a head full of curls. This was another reason why he hated the holidays. Once Boxing Day was over and they were all back at work, Miller would be outfitted in her lumpy jumpers and her professional suits, Daisy would be home, and he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts. If he could just make it through the next three days...

The faint jingling of bells announced her presence in his office. Hardy’s heart sped up when she shut the door behind her. He took one look at her and closed out of whatever he’d been working on. 

“Everything okay?” he asked. 

Miller chewed on her lip.

“Bob ordered from that dodgy new takeaway place again,” she informed him, placing a boxed salad in the center of his desk with a set of plastic utensils. “He’s gone home sick.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine in the morning.” 

Hardy recognized the label on the container, but he cracked it open to ensure that it was in fact his usual salad from one of the more reputable restaurants in Broadchurch. He reached for his billfold, but she held up a hand. 

“It’s my treat,” she insisted, but her smile was too bright and her eyes were troubled. “I got you this too,” she said blithely, and reached back into the paper sack for a bottle of expensive Scotch. It wasn’t wrapped, she hadn’t even bothered with a ribbon, and he’d seen some of the other colourful presents arranged in her sitting room. 

“I didn’t realize we were exchanging gifts now.” Hardy panicked, wondering if he’d missed something she’d said earlier.

“Oh, no this isn’t-” she paused, before rushing on, “I thought you might want to open this one early, you know, with Michael Bublé and those _dreadful_ decorations.” Hardy was unconvinced, but he thanked her anyway and put it beneath his desk. 

“You might need some of that,” she suggested, her hands fluttering. 

“We’re at work,” he pointed out.

“It’s half past five and you volunteered to help me set up. Before you say anything I already checked with Clark and she was all for us both scooting out early and donating our time. It makes the police look good, setting a shining example-”

“Out with it,” Hardy interrupted her. 

“I need a favour,” Miller blurted. 

“I’ll consider it, if you agree not to play Michael Bublé.” He was only half joking, but she went a shade paler. 

“Listen, Hardy, I mucked something up and I really can’t let Beth down. P.C. Bob was my back-up plan, but he won’t be able to make it tonight.”

“Relax,” he soothed her, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his plastic fork. “I’ll handle the security detail, and I can keep an eye on the Snells, Crazy Jim, and the kids.”

“Forget the security, this is more important,” she snapped, and now she was _begging_ him, “It’ll only take an hour, I swear, and I will be forever in your debt.”

“Miller,” Hardy cut in again. “What do you want?”

“Just hear me out,” she cajoled him. 

“I’m listening.” 

She came around the desk, shoving his salad aside so that she could sit on the ledge. Hardy mournfully eyed the spilled Romaine and the oily dressing soaking through some paperwork he’d have to recopy. 

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“Don’t.” 

She tried to clean it up, and a piece of dripping arugula predictably landed on his favourite tie from Daisy. He flicked the leaf off, but it left a stain on the blue silk. 

“Ach, Millah.” 

“C’mere.” Before he could stop her, Miller had seized a paper napkin and blotted it. 

As she cleaned his tie, Hardy forgot about the salad and the stain altogether. She leaned forward to palm the fabric and to examine his Oxford for more stains, and he stopped thinking completely. His eyes roved over her snug jumper and her jeans hugging her hips and her legs. God, had she always had those legs and curves? Suddenly, his office was too bloody hot. 

“Hardy, if you do this for me, I’ll do _anything_ to make it up to you-”

“Anything?” he choked out.

Miller’s eyes widened and Hardy realized he’d said that out loud. Taken out of context, it wasn’t inappropriate, but given their position…

Miller was half in his lap and Hardy had unconsciously leaned toward her. His wandering hand was halfway to her shapely thigh before he checked himself. She blushed and he was dumbstruck by the wicked smile she gave him. 

“Name your price,” she dared him. 

He leaned back in his chair to consider her, knotting his fingers over his stomach.

“You first,” he said.

“I think you’re going to need some more persuasion,” she said and bent down to retrieve the Scotch from under his desk. 

Hardy rolled his chair back a few inches, but he didn’t stop her from getting down on her hands and knees in front of him to dig out the bottle from where he’d hid it. And fucking hell, he’d overheard one of the younger P.C.s detailing Miller’s assets (Hardy had sacked him for sexual harassment) but in spite of all the hours he spent with her, Hardy never saw her from this angle or ever allowed himself to even _think_ about it. Until now. 

Miller bumped her head on the underside of her desk, dragging him out of his reverie. Cursing, she twisted around to face him, still on her knees. 

“You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

“I will be once you agree to help me,” she simpered and he swallowed hard. 

“Miller, what are you…” 

She brushed her curls out of her big brown eyes and his mouth went dry. He gripped the armrests of his chair. Miller put down the Scotch and hesitantly lifted a hand to his knee. All of the muscles in Hardy’s body locked up as she left her palm there, testing him. Hardy’s heart banged against his ribcage, threatening to outpace his pacemaker, but he didn’t trust himself to move or speak. He could barely breathe as she wet her lips and raked her eyes over him.

“Do you want me to open the Scotch or…?” 

Her lingering gaze stroked his ego and confirmed that this would be a consensual act if either of them admitted what went unsaid between them. One of her fingers twitched, a nervous tic she couldn’t control. Hardy desperately wanted to reach for her or to say something, but a shrinking part of his brain reminded him that this was wrong and unacceptable for so many reasons. He glanced at the door and Miller squeezed his kneecap.

“I locked it,” she whispered, “Not that I planned this,” she babbled, “This is the last thing I expected from _you_ , I wore a dress once and you sacked the first person who noticed-” She halted in mid-sentence as Hardy looked at her. Her rosy lips rounded into a perfect “O” and the temperature in his office climbed from uncomfortably warm to blisteringly hot. 

“He noticed a lot more than your dress,” Hardy pressed between clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring.

“Well, it’s about time someone did,” she said bitterly.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he growled.

“You’re such a knob,” she said almost fondly and her free hand toyed with his tie. She never touched him, not like this. “I’ve never met anyone who hates the holidays or Michael Bublé or Christmas decorations as much as you do. It’s unnatural. You’re an embarrassment to Britain.”

“I’m already the Worst Cop in Britain,” he reminded her. 

“But now you have an opportunity to be the Cop who redeemed himself and saved Christmas,” she said cheerily and dragged her index finger down the blue silk of his tie. Hardy exhaled heavily and she wheedled, “C’mon, a favour for a favour.”

“I don’t need a favour,” he groaned.

Miller’s fingertip slid past the end of the tie to graze his belt buckle and the evidence of how badly he wanted a favour, effectively stopping any further argument. 

“Please, Hardy.”

“Ellie, I...” He didn’t recognize the gravelly sound of his own voice or the gorgeous woman kneeling at his feet. Her palm crept up his leg and her fingers deliberately brushed the inside of his thigh. 

“Don’t overthink this,” she murmured soothingly, “It’s an even exchange. We’re both desperate.”

“’m not desperate – _fuck_.”

She palmed the noticeable bulge in his trousers and he broke off with a strangled curse. His self-control would’ve fractured into a million little pieces, if someone hadn’t banged on the door and rattled the doorknob to his office. 

Miller startled and Hardy reflexively shoved her under the desk. The back of her head almost connected with the sharp edge of the desk drawers, but she ducked. Hardy’s heart was thundering in his ears and she was pressed between his legs in an even more precarious position. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, reaching down to cradle her head.

“Merry Christmas Shitface!” An envelope was pushed beneath his door and SOCO Brian’s footsteps finally retreated. He relaxed his grip on her hair and looked down at her. 

“I locked the door,” she reminded him breathlessly.

“You should go,” Hardy’s voice cracked, betraying how perilously close he’d come to caving. He cleared his throat. “Please, leave.”

Her hands fell away from him and he shut his eyes. 

“If you don’t get out of my office, right now, I won’t do it,” he threatened. He heard her scrambling to her feet. 

“You’ll help me?” Her voice was small but hopeful. Hardy tried not to listen for an undercurrent of disappointment. 

“I’ll meet you in the car park in fifteen minutes,” he conceded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And then you can tell me what you need me to do.”

“Thank you,” she said. Hardy exhaled shakily and opened his eyes before she unlocked the door. 

“I’m really not going to like this, am I?” he said softly. Miller didn’t deny it and Hardy groaned. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised, “Whatever you want.”

“We’ll discuss this outside,” Hardy said curtly as their boss poked her head into his office. 

“What happened to your antlers?” Clark asked, pointing to the top of Miller’s head. 

“Oh!” Miller patted her hair and backed away toward her desk. “Must’ve left them in the Ladies’.”

Clark chuckled and stepped into Hardy’s office. Hardy was distracted by Miller gathering her things and preparing to head out for the day. His gaze trailed her as she stopped to speak to P.C. Smith. Clark cleared her throat and Hardy realized he’d been caught staring at his partner. 

“Sorry, what were you saying?” he asked, flustered. Clark rolled her eyes. 

“You’ll have to be more discreet,” Clark chided him and kicked something beneath his desk. “Thanks, for doing this, Hardy. I don’t want to know how Ellie convinced you, but Fred and my nephews have been looking forward to this for ages. I’m glad we won’t have to let them down.” With that said, she left him alone in his office. 

Hardy waited until he was absolutely certain that she was gone, before he peeked beneath his desk at what might’ve captured Clark’s attention. 

He swore under his breath. 

The Scotch was hidden, but Clark had found Miller’s bleeding antlers and she seemed to have an idea of how they might’ve gotten there. 

Hardy buried his flushed face in his hands.

Bloody hell. 

What had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope no one takes this too seriously. I can assure you that Michael Bublé and Pentatonix were not harmed during the writing of this fic and that they’re safely tucked away until next Christmas. I don’t know how many versions of ‘Last Christmas’ there are, but nothing will ever live up to the music video that Wham! created. I tried to make it clear that Hardy and Ellie are both consenting adults, but they will discuss it later. I didn’t want to give it away, but if someone has a better suggestion for a TW or is completely offended let me know. The second half should be up soon.


	2. The Heart of Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no idea why I wrote this, but it was fun. I tried to incorporate some of the U.K. holiday traditions but I think I got them wrong. Feel free to correct me.

**TW: Tooth-rotting holiday fluff; cliché Hallmark moments**

With nineteen years of parenthood and decades in law enforcement under his belt, Hardy had thought he’d seen and done it all. But what Miller was asking of him was unacceptable. She wanted to take his last shred of dignity and broadcast it to the whole bloody town. Hardy would’ve rather joined Michael Bublé’s fan club and suffered through a marathon of stale TV specials with his former in-laws. 

Hardy _loathed_ Christmas. 

“No.”

“Hardy,” Miller wheedled.

“ _No_.” Hardy slammed the boot shut on the last of the decorations.

“Come _on_ , Hardy, I promised Beth.”

“No.” Hardy glared daggers at Miller and stalked over to the driver’s side. He held up a palm before she could start begging again. 

“I agreed to help you with this stuff, and I’ll keep an eye on the bloody boozers and the wee ones, but I’m not doing _that_.” He motioned toward the boot where the monstrosity was buried within the decorations for the Hall.

“But there’s no one else who will do it!” she protested, getting into the car next to him. 

“That’s not true.” He shoved the key into the ignition. “There’s P.C. Smith.” 

“I already asked. He’s taking the train to Birmingham tonight.” 

“That’s horseshit.” 

“Some people actually celebrate Christmas with their friends and families, Hardy, you should try it sometime,” she suggested snidely. 

Hardy almost reminded her that he would be too, but his ex had taken that privilege from him when she divorced him. They drove down High Street and Hardy compiled a list of potential candidates in his head. 

“What about the bloke who’s always loitering at the Traders?”

“He’s an alcoholic.”

“So? Half the people in this town could be classified as alcoholics.”

Miller whacked his arm and they exchanged scowls, but Hardy was determined to find a solution. 

He listed off all the eligible people and Miller discarded them one by one. Nearly everyone they knew had already headed out of town for the holidays. Beth had even approached Mark, but he lived too far to make it in time. The bloke who had done it in the past was now wheelchair-bound and on ten litres of oxygen. One of the men Hardy suggested had died last summer, and two more had misdemeanours that had flagged in the background check. Hardy’s case was hindered by the fact that he was bad with names. Miller spent more time figuring out who he was referencing than debunking his arguments. 

“There’s that old codger that lives up on the cliffs that keeps filing noise complaints, what’s his name?”

“Are you insane? Teddy never shuts up and he can’t tolerate children.” 

“Oh, and you think that I can?” he snorted. 

“You’ve always been good with Fred,” Miller countered, and Hardy couldn’t argue with her. He took his eyes off the road, but she was staring straight ahead. 

“That’s different,” he said, “He’s yours.”

“So, you’re saying that if he wasn’t my son-”

“I don’t hate small children,” Hardy interrupted her. “I wished Daisy could’ve stayed that little forever, but she was mine, and I’m Fred’s Uncle Alec.…” He trailed off, struggling to put the specialness of Fred into words, while still conscious of the forbidden relationship that Joe had developed with Danny. “I’m sort of obligated to spend time with wee Fred, but he’s a good lad.”

“You’re not obligated,” she reminded him. “You’re not actually his Uncle. I only started it to get a rise out of you, and ‘sides there’s loads of kids that have shitty uncles.”

“Fred doesn’t have to be one of them.”

“You say that, but you disappeared for three years,” she pointed out. 

“I didn’t abandon him,” he defended himself. “He wasn’t old enough to form an attachment to me.”

“And what about now?” she wondered as they pulled into the parking lot of the Hall. 

“’m here, aren’t I?” 

“Joe would have helped us tonight,” she said, hitting them both where it hurt, “Just so that he wouldn’t have to let Fred down.”

Hardy parked and turned off the car. He didn’t mention the other reason why Joe would have been so quick to volunteer tonight. He didn’t have to. Miller was already wrestling with the shadow of an ex that sometimes looked back at her from behind Tom’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and he was startled by the tears in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked this of you. I know how much you hate the holidays, but this was the first year I felt _happy_ again.”

Hardy opened his mouth, but she kept wittering.

“When Beth asked for my help, I thought I could do it all. I thought that if I could get it right, if everything was perfect-” Her voice broke on a sob and his heart splintered. 

Reaching over the console, he squeezed her arm as she burrowed her head in her hands. All Hardy could do was rub circles over her back and stroke her hair. She didn’t flinch away from his touch like she would’ve done years earlier when Joe’s betrayal was too raw, and Hardy wished he’d paid more attention. Maybe he would’ve already figured out which wounds had healed and which ones were waiting for the balm of a soothing touch. 

“We’ve got the decorations,” he reminded her and dug a grease-spotted serviette out of the glove box.

“Why bother with it?” she sniffled. “We haven’t got anyone to play the part.”

“Yes, we do,” Hardy said, tucking her hair behind her ears and dabbing at the tear stains. 

“I’ve already considered it,” she sighed, “But I told Fred and Lizzie that I’m friends with the elves and that I’d be there.” 

“I’ll do it,” he said.

He traced one of the shimmering tear tracks on her rosy cheeks and she stared at him incredulously. 

“You don’t have to,” she back-peddled.

“I can’t let Fred down.”

Miller blinked away the last of her tears and then she lunged over the console. Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek and hugged him tightly. Hardy awkwardly patted her on the back.

“I knew I could count on you,” she murmured against the shell of his ear. Hardy had witnessed Miller break suspects in interrogation, but he was wholly unprepared for how _good_ it felt to cave to the gentle pressure and to be led wherever she needed him. She pecked him on the cheek again and Hardy forgot how to breathe. 

“I owe you one, Hardy,” she gushed and hopped out of the car to empty the boot. 

Hardy tentatively touched the spot where she’d kissed him twice in exchange for his last shred of dignity. It should’ve terrified him, but he wasn’t even that upset about it. 

*

“Well?”

Hardy looked at Miller expectantly, spreading his arms wide. Biting her lip, she struggled to hide her amusement. 

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” he sighed, scrunching up his nose at the mothball stench that clung to the rented costume. 

He tried to smooth down some of the matted felt to no avail. It was almost as bad as Miller’s jumper, probably worse, judging from her reaction. He didn’t even want to think about if the suit had been laundered or if that was the smell of the stale sweat of the last occupant. 

“You look fine,” Miller lied, but Beth cackled as soon as she saw him.

“Oh, my god, I need a picture of this!” She took out her phone, and Miller did the same. 

“No, don’t do that,” Hardy whined. “Stop it!” he growled, making a futile grab for Miller’s phone.

Beth was in stitches, clutching at her sides as she swiped through the shots she’d taken. Miller was trying so hard not to burst out laughing that she looked like she was in physical pain.

“It’s not that bad,” Miller assured him.

“He’s so _skinny_ ,” Beth howled. 

“And grumpy,” Miller contributed, chortling. “Give us a big smile and maybe no one will recognize you.”

Hardy snarled and ducked back into the office, barring the door. Miller knocked a few times and Beth offered a half-hearted apology, before their footsteps retreated. 

“This is going to be a disaster,” Beth predicted. Their voices were amplified by the high ceilings of the adjoining hall, carrying to where Hardy still stood with his forehead pressed against the door. 

“The children are going to be traumatized for the rest of their life if he acts like we’re sending him to the gallows.”

“He’s doing us all a favour, Beth.”

“I doubt the Grinch of Broadchurch suddenly found his Christmas spirit again,” Beth scoffed. “How much do we have to pay him?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, my God,” Beth gasped, “You finally told him?”

Miller mumbled something, but Hardy could only hear Beth’s exclamations. 

“It’s been two years, El. What are you waiting for?”

Miller moved closer, and Hardy caught another one of Beth’s dramatic gasps and some of Miller’s muffled response.

“...even though he sacked someone for leering at me. And then, he threw me out of his office.”

“But it worked,” Beth pointed out.

“Only because he felt sorry for me,” Miller lamented. “Christ, how am I ever going to face him after this?”

Beth’s reply was whispered, but it must’ve been inappropriate, judging from Miller’s high-pitched laughter. 

“No, Beth, I’m done. I’ve asked him out for drinks and dinner. I even invited him over for Christmas last year and you remember how that turned out,” she recollected, and Hardy felt a stab of guilt as he remembered how awful he’d been to her. “Hardy’s made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with me outside of work. ‘s fine, I’ll get over it.”

“I still think Hardy’s shy,” Beth hedged, “Or perhaps he’s got an office fetish.”

Fortunately, the pitter patter of small feet and the arrival of more of their jolly helpers put an end to that discussion. 

Hardy stepped back from the door and slouched against the desk. His heart beat painfully in his chest. He’d thought nothing of eating with Miller on company time or bringing their work home with them, but he’d balked every time she brought up drinks or the pub. Last December when Miller had tried to bully him into coming to Christmas dinner, Hardy had panicked and blurted out the first lie that came to mind, claiming that he was spending it with another woman he’d met through a dating app. Her crestfallen expression should’ve been enough evidence for him. God, he’d been so blind. All this time he’d assumed she viewed him as a charity case, but he must’ve been mistaken. 

It felt like hours passed before someone knocked on the door. Hardy unlocked the door and Miller shoved past him before any of the children scampering about could spy him. She latched it behind her and surveyed him with a critical eye. 

“You ready for your big night, D.I. Grinch?” 

“No,” Hardy grunted, scratching at his chin. “Don’t have much of a choice though, do I?”

Miller approached him hesitantly, fiddling with the stocking cap he’d discarded on the desk along with the itchy white beard piece he was supposed to hook behind his ears. 

“It shouldn’t take more than an hour,” she promised him again. “As soon as you’re done, you can nip in here and leave through the back door. Try not to be seen.” 

She picked up the pillow from the desk chair and tossed it at him. He caught it against his chest and groaned.

“Another one? Is this really necessary, Miller?”

She arched a brow.

“Do you want to be recognized?” 

Hardy didn’t think that a little extra padding was going to disguise the only Scot in Broadchurch, but Miller motioned for him to remove the sodding coat. Hardy already had one pillow belted loosely to his stomach, but the buckle had slid behind him and out of reach. He had to turn around so that she could unbuckle his belt and re-strap both pillows to his stomach. If Hardy wasn’t so disgusted by the mouldy costume, he might’ve noted the irony of his current situation. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.”

“You bribed me,” he snapped as she tightened and re-buckled the belt. 

“I doubt anyone suspects you’re a dirty cop, susceptible to bribery,” she teased him. 

“You just wait ‘til I call in my favour,” he said roughly, raking his eyes over her before he snatched the hideous coat back from her. 

He tugged the coat back on with some difficulty and found Miller staring at a stain in the carpet by her feet. She rubbed at her neck, deliberately avoiding his eyes. The potent mix of shame and embarrassment was infectious. Hardy felt the sensations burning in his stomach and climbing past the lump in his throat until his face flamed. 

“Listen, Miller…”

“Hardy, I…”

They both stopped and started again, talking over one another in their rush to clear the stifling air between them. 

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Hardy, I shouldn’t have-”

“It was very unprofessional of me,” Hardy went on, gravely. “I would _never_ ask that of any of my colleagues or anyone that I’m not in a _consensual_ relationship-” 

“Hardy, you didn’t ask for anything,” Miller interrupted him. 

“Maybe I wanted to,” he murmured, but she didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I don’t know what came over me. Nish must’ve put some extra holiday spirits in my coffee. It was a stupid joke and if it had been anyone other than you…” She tapered off as if she’d belatedly registered his interruption and the intensity of his stare. 

“A stupid joke,” he repeated flatly.

“You - you wanted me to?” she stammered and gaped at him. 

“Was it a joke to you?”

“No,” she admitted, swallowing as he scrutinized her. 

She smoothed her hands over the frolicking kittens, and Hardy reflected on how they’d gotten into this mess in the first place. Hardy wished he could blame his inappropriate conduct on the stupidly snug jumper and the fit of her jeans, but if he was honest with himself, Hardy had been attracted to Ellie Miller well before he noticed her curves. He liked her ridiculous antlers and the silly matching silver bells in her ears, he even liked the fact that she decorated the bloody office with those dreadful decorations and hummed along to Michael Bublé’s terrible songs. He wasn’t dressed in this abominable costume for some noble or shameful reason, he was doing this because he’d do almost anything to make her smile. 

“Good,” Hardy cleared his throat, “Because I’m calling in my favour now.”

“Can it wait ‘til later?” she asked, wringing her hands and darting a glance at the rusty latch on the door that might not withstand a determined child. 

“Not really,” Hardy said, eyeing the clock on the wall. They had ten more minutes before they were both expected in the Hall. Plenty of time. Yanking on the silk gloves, he sat on the desk and grudgingly donned the red stocking cap and the white beard. 

“C’mere, Miller, don’t be shy,” he urged her, crooking his finger at her.

“You can’t be serious,” she hissed, but her lips were twitching as she reluctantly came to stand between his legs. 

“You said I could have _anything_ I wanted, right?” he clarified with her one more time. 

“Within reason, the clock’s ticking,” she reminded him, clicking her tongue. Hardy gestured for her to lean in closer so he could whisper his request in her ear. 

Miller froze and then jerked back from him. She stared at him for a long searching moment with those lovely limpid eyes that rarely missed anything.

“That’s what you want?” she inquired softly. 

Hardy nodded and tapped his right cheek.

“Are you sure?” she asked, almost sounding disappointed. “You don’t want to sleep on it?” He shook his head and she straightened his hat, readjusting the fuzzy pommel so that it hung to one side.

“Alright, then,” she conceded and dipped down to bestow a kiss on the cheek that had been neglected earlier. But instead of the imprint of her lips, Hardy felt her hot breath stirring his ridiculous fake beard with a nervous burst of laughter. 

“Sorry, ‘s a bit weird,” she apologized with a smile that almost made the humiliating fiasco tolerable. 

“Wait, hold still,” she instructed him, unhooking the beard piece from behind his ears. She set it aside and examined him as if seeing him for the first time. 

Seconds stretched into a minute, and Hardy seized the opportunity to detangle one of the tinkling earrings from her ringlets. His gloved fingertips grazed the lobe of her ear and then strayed to her jaw. The silk prevented him from feeling her skin, and while it could’ve easily been remedied, there was a thrill in the touch deprivation, even if it was only temporary. He sketched her profile in silk, observing how her eyes warmed to him, and feeling as if he’d found a way around those strict lines of professionalism that had prevented him from ever entertaining the idea of them together. Clearly the illusion of touch wasn’t enough for either of them; he should’ve known that he’d never be able to stay inside those constructed lines for long. 

She framed his face between her palms and the sudden bloom of warmth was almost too much for him to handle. His gloved hands twitched and he scooted to the edge of the desk, redirecting her heated gaze and those soft lips to where he needed them. 

She kissed him and Hardy tasted a hint of cocoa and the tantalizing curl of that wicked smile she’d given earlier in his office. His heart beat wildly against the constraints of time and too many padded layers of mouldering fabric. He itched to be free of the costume as her hands swept the cap from his head and sank into his hair. His hands must’ve been operating independently, because he’d fumbled with her jumper until he’d coaxed her to sit on one of his shaking thighs. She was all over him and yet nowhere near close enough. And still the temperature continued to climb to record-breaking new highs for December until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

A stampede of beasts thundered past the door and they sprang apart. Squeals erupted and echoed off the high ceilings as Beth herded the group of escapees away from the office and penned them back up in the Hall. Hardy and Miller stared at each other, wide-eyed and breathless, before glancing at the rusty latch on the door secured and unmoved by the ruckus outside. 

“That wasn’t my cheek you kissed,” Hardy noted slyly, and Miller jammed the stupid cap back onto his head with more force than was necessary. “Close enough,” he mollified and reattached the repulsive beard himself. 

They both had to take a few minutes to collect themselves, but fortunately the shrieking laughter in the next room and Hardy’s suit was enough to kill the mood. 

“Let’s go, Father Chrimbo,” she said, donning a striped cap similar to his. Except hers was too large for her head. She scowled at him as her hat slid down over one eye and he bit back a smile.

He picked up Father Christmas’s sack and hummed the first few bars to ‘I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Clause’. Miller elbowed him on the way out, but her eyes crinkled up into a smile. 

*

Shockingly, he survived the hour. There weren’t as many children as Hardy had feared, and most of them were more interested in the free sweets and crackers or the homemade desserts and gift baskets that were being sold and raffled off as part of the fundraiser for Beth’s charity. Hardy had to sit through some photos and hold a few screaming babies, but Miller smiled encouragingly and cooed over them. She looked happy, and he’d willingly sacrifice his dignity all over again to keep her that way. 

Hardy handed out a few gifts, and then Fred shyly crawled up into his lap. Miller went all teary-eyed on him again and insisted on turning it into a family photo. Tom was dragged up from somewhere and Miller got a rare smile out of Tom because he nearly pissed himself after he discovered it was Hardy under that beard. Hardy knew that incriminating photograph was going to find its way to Daisy, but the blackmail paled in comparison to how badly Hardy had wished she’d been there too, cracking up right alongside Tom and Miller. 

Hardy tore off the ghastly costume and stuffed it back into the sack, hoping he’d never see it again, but he was drawn back to the Hall. 

From the shadows, he watched Miller take Fred’s tiny hand and twirl him under her arm. Hardy couldn’t hear whatever Christmas carol was being drowned out by the sheer size of the Hall, but Miller was singing it to Tom as she and Fred danced circles around him. Hardy didn’t realize he was smiling until Miller looked back over her shoulder and found him. Their eyes met and Hardy felt something silently pass between them. 

Fred tugged at the hem of her jumper and the moment was lost, but the yearning followed Hardy home to his empty bungalow and kept him up for most of the night. 

*

Hardy and P.C. Bob had a busy morning, starting with a call from the panicked Reverend Thomas. Someone had broken into the sacristy and had stolen all the pre-packaged Christmas dinners and gifts that were meant to be donated to families who had fallen on hard times. Fortunately, they caught the culprit later that afternoon, but Hardy got roped into assisting the Reverend with his delayed deliveries. One of the recipients burst into tears and hugged Hardy for a solid five minutes. Hardy was flustered and a bit annoyed that she wouldn’t let go of him, but when he saw her young daughters watching from the window, he remembered Daisy’s enthusiasm for Christmas and he sympathized with the poor parent. 

He rang Daisy on the way back. Michael Bublé crooned in the background with Tess serenading Daisy offkey and a beat behind him. 

“Save me, Dad,” Daisy pleaded with him, “She’s already set off the smoke detector and she’s been playing Michael Bublé all morning.” 

“Now you understand why your Mum and I got divorced.” 

Daisy laughed and Hardy grinned. They’d had a row almost every Christmas, but Hardy had finally reached a turning point where he could put the scars of the past behind him and appreciate the good memories they had when they were a family. 

“Wish you were here, Dad.” 

“I miss you too, darling,” Hardy sighed.

“So…” Daisy drawled, “Are you going to Ellie’s tomorrow or are you going to invent another fake girlfriend so you won’t have to face your feelings?”

Hardy _accidentally_ hung up on her and Tess laughing at him. 

The stationhouse had emptied out and it was dark by the time Hardy finished up the paperwork and called it a night. Miller had taken off Christmas Eve ages ago, so he was surprised when she rang him on his late walk home. 

“Hardy, I need a favour.”

Hardy stopped in his tracks, his breath curling in the air before him. 

“What kind of favour?” he asked warily. 

“Do you have a screwdriver and some AA batteries?”

An hour later, Hardy and Miller were huddled together on the floor of her sitting room, reading through a booklet of incomprehensible instructions in eight different languages. Miller claimed the French made more sense to her than the English, and even though they’d searched through the contents of the box, they only had fifteen of the sixteen plastic screws. 

“Thanks for coming over,” she said softly, conscious of her youngest sleeping upstairs. “Dad doesn’t remember where he misplaced the toolbox, and of course I didn’t think to check for the batteries Tom would need until _after_ the shops had already closed.” 

Hardy had ripped apart his house, but eventually he’d located a dusty package of AA’s in a box with some lightbulbs. 

“What’s this supposed to be anyway?” he asked, frowning at the bizarre diagram of what looked like something you might find in a medieval torture chamber. 

“Foosball Table. The reviews said _some_ assembly might be required, that’s the last time I buy anything off of that bloody website,” Miller grumbled, shoving her tangled hair out of her eyes and squinting at the assortment of parts scattered in front of the TV. Her lumpy jumper was dusted with flour and crusted with what might’ve been frosting, but Hardy was having trouble focusing on anything with her sitting so closely. 

“I think it’s upside down, Hardy.” 

She had that expression on her face she always got when she was close to breaking their case wide open, and Hardy felt a jolt of excitement. She helped him flip the wooden panel over and their hands brushed, leaving his fingertips tingling. 

“Maybe that’s supposed to go there…” 

It took them almost three hours to finish building Fred’s Christmas gift, but somehow they managed not to wake up her boys or strangle one another in the process. Miller had finally found the missing screw in the packaging, but they’d had to take the whole thing apart because Hardy had put another one in its place. Now it was two in the morning and he had a throbbing headache, but Miller brought him some mulled wine she’d been preparing for later and they collapsed together on the sofa. 

“By the way, you’re invited to dinner.” 

“What time?” Hardy asked, yawning. 

“Doesn’t matter.”

Hardy swilled some of the wine and shut his eyes. There was too much cinnamon, but the warmth of the beverage and the domestic setting soaked through him, relaxing his aching muscles.

“I bumped into Reverend Thomas earlier,” Miller said suddenly and Hardy opened his eyes. He must have started to doze off, because her glass was empty and her cheeks were pink. 

“Is it true that the Grinch of Broadchurch has a heart after all?” she asked, eyes sparkling. 

Hardy swallowed the rest of his wine and set it down next to her empty glass. Shifting a bit closer to her, he rested his elbow on the cushion next to her head and propped his chin up in his hand. 

“Maybe,” he said softly and she beamed at him. 

“I heard you saved Christmas again.” 

“Nah,” he dismissed it, but Miller gently touched his sternum and he swore he felt his shrivelled heart grow to accommodate her and that breath-taking smile of hers. 

“I’m proud of you Hardy,” she told him and his heart beat harder beneath her palm. “I always knew you had a heart in there somewhere.”

Hardy rolled his eyes, but his lips curled up into the first of many smiles reserved for her. There was a bit of green frosting clumped in her hair by her ear, and she smelled like spun sugar and the cinnamon she must have spilled in the mulled wine. It was so sweet that Hardy felt a bit light-headed as she leaned in closer. 

“You know,” she whispered, playing with one of the buttons on his shirt, “I still owe you a favour.” She gazed up at him through her lashes and Hardy’s mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to cash it in yet,” he rasped, clearing his throat, “But maybe after the holidays we could have dinner and…”

She lifted her brows and waited for him to finish. But Hardy didn’t know how to explain how it dawned on him after she came in wearing that stupidly adorable jumper and those daft antlers that he was an idiot. It was as if a switch had been flicked, illuminating the feelings he’d always had for her, but Hardy was rubbish with words. 

So, he kissed her instead. 

He cradled her face in his hands until her mouth opened eagerly under his. Her arms came around him, steadying him as they tipped well beyond writing this off as a favour and into something _more_. He fell for her, lowering her to sofa and trailing reverent kisses down the column of her throat. Her body responded to his as if she were made for him, and Hardy was embarrassed by the sound he made when their hips ground together. 

A thump from up above interrupted his exploration of what lay beneath her voluminous jumper. Their hearts raced in tandem as they clung to each other and the lines that they’d irreversibly crossed. But now that Hardy had become reacquainted with his heart, there was no way in hell he was going back to the way things were before. 

“Bloody reindeer,” he whispered and she shook with silent laughter beneath him. 

“Merry Christmas, Ellie.”

“Merry Chrimbo, knob,” she replied fondly. 

Hardy kissed her again and buried his nose in her sweet-scented hair. She held him close, carding her fingers through his hair as he breathed her in and his heart swelled with every beat. 

*

Hardy didn’t hate Christmas anymore. 

The holidays were still stressful and Michael Bublé was inescapable. Daisy spent Christmases with her Mum, Hardy still got tied up at work and forgot the milk, and Miller got emotional over misplaced batteries that Tom or Fred needed for their latest gadget or something silly. Her father wasn’t a fan of Hardy and the stale TV specials didn’t improve, but Tom and Fred warmed to him and Hardy never spent the holidays alone again. 

One Christmas Eve it snowed, and Hardy stood by the frosted window with Ellie wrapped up in his embrace after the kids had gone to bed. Their breath fogged up the glass and Hardy reached around her to draw a shrivelled heart with his fingertip. Ellie’s laughter filled his canvas and Hardy’s heart beat harder as he shakily scrawled a question amongst the mist and falling snow.

“ _Alec_ ,” she whispered, turning in his arms. 

Her eyes glittered, shining brighter than the diamond he held boxed up in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize to anyone who was expecting hot!office sex or any sort of smut. As I was writing the second part, I got too sentimental and nostalgic. An article mentioned that John Lennon said Merry Chrimbo, it seemed ridiculous enough for this fic, so I went with it, but is this really a thing? I discovered that Foosball tables are called Table Football or Table Soccer, but saying I’m putting together the Table Football sounded off to me, so I switched it back. I’m still a little leery of Father Christmas versus Santa Clause, and I’m super disappointed that Hallmark Christmas movie marathons are solely an American thing and that mulled wine hasn’t caught on here. Anyway, I hope you’re all safe at home or being extra careful.


End file.
